


in the year between

by singingstorm, surestsmile



Category: Kamen Rider W | Masked Rider Double
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingstorm/pseuds/singingstorm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/surestsmile/pseuds/surestsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is about (not) moving on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Shoutarou had mostly forgotten about the weird kid still sitting on his tatty couch when he finally felt calm enough to emerge from the toilet. The adrenaline rush from transforming using those Gaia memories had long worn off, and his eyes were hurting from the vicious bout of crying when it finally hit him, that Oya-san was dead. He just wanted to sleep now, to forget, even for a while, what had happened in the past few hours.  
  
Which was why he was startled when the other boy suddenly reached out and touched his arm, slowly trying to pull him into a hug, and he slapped his hand away. His visitor cocked his head at that, and announced, "A person who is in distress should be kept warm."  
  
Shoutarou knew it was rude to stare, because that was one of the first things Oya-san taught him when he started his apprenticeship, but he was too tired to bother about being rude. "Who are you?" he said thickly.  
  
The other boy's face went carefully blank, and Shoutarou almost lost his temper because it shouldn't take more than a few seconds to come up with a reply, before the other boy smiled absentmindedly and murmured, "Well now, this I don't know."  
  
\---------------------------------------  
  
When Shoutarou woke up the next morning, he really thought that the previous night had been a bad nightmare; Oya-san was still alive, and he hadn't been saddled with a child-like idiot savant with no awareness of personal space. Then he got up to make some coffee to drive the crankiness away, and promptly tripped over a warm body sprawled across his bedroom doorway, surrounded by numerous sheets of paper and opened books. "The hell?" Shoutarou shouted.   
  
There was a pained moan where he had kneed the boy in the side when he fell, but Shoutarou felt more furious than apologetic when he realized that half of the stash of notebooks he kept were _gone_ , filled up with strange notes about heat therapy and calming techniques. He spotted one entry about grief counselling and was sincerely glad that he had the foresight to lock his door.  
  
"Oi," Shoutarou said, getting up and nudging the boy with his toe. "Wake up, you." When there was no other response except for another whine, Shoutarou sighed and reached down to pull him up. "If you wanted to sleep, the couch is right there."  
  
"Couch," the boy suddenly slurred, and Shoutarou nearly dropped him, "a narrow bed on which a patient lies during psychiatric or psychoanalytic treat-"  
  
Shoutarou swore again, then privately vowed to stop; it was only seven-thirty in the morning and it wasn't becoming of a detective to swear so much. He lugged his surprisingly heavy visitor over to his less-than-comfortable furniture, draped a blanket on a second thought and finally, finally went to brew his much needed cup of coffee.   
  
The boy continued to sleep when he left to follow up on some jobs, pushing aside the grief that threatened to overwhelm him again. Even if Oya-san was dead, there were bills to be paid, the agency to upkeep. He wouldn't let Oya-san down. Even so, Shoutarou was kind of sorry to find the boy still there when he came back, awake and scribbling in the rest of his notebooks.   
  
"Did you eat anything?" He asked in the end, mindful that there wasn't really anything edible in the fridge, maybe some leftover natto. When the boy summarily ignored him, nattering something about the best way to organize a library, Shoutarou rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Suit yourself."  
  
But he opened the fridge anyway, made a face, and decided that perhaps a trip to the local supermarket was in order.   
  
\------------------------------  
  
At the end of the day, Shoutarou realized something about his unexpected housemate.   
  
"You haven't eaten at all, have you."   
  
The boy was slumped on the couch, blinking very slowly like a lizard. Shoutarou sighed, pushed a bowl of cereal at him, and watched as he ate hungrily. When he finished, Shoutarou took the bowl away and pulled him up, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "Let me guess, you don't know when to bathe either."  
  
He manhandled him into the small shower in the apartment, and was about to leave him there to clean up when Shoutarou heard muttering about the pipe system. "Oh for-" Shoutarou re-opened the door, "Don't think about the piping, go and shower!"   
  
In the end, he ended up stripping the kid and dunking him under the spray amidst his rambling about how dangerous exposed metal pipes were. "Do you ever shut up," Shoutarou said, and scrubbed extra hard at his gunky hair.  
  
\------------------------------  
  
"You are Hidari Shoutarou," the boy said, after Shoutarou shoved some clothes at him and barked that he could go and dress himself, he's not his mother.  
  
"What about it," Shoutarou replied, and automatically adjusted the collar of the boy's shirt. His visitor finally seemed to stop being obsessed with whatever strange subject that came his way, or maybe it was because of the lack of available paper to scrawl on. Shoutarou wasn't sure if he felt like contributing to waste by buying him more paper.   
  
There was silence where the boy continued to look on, eyes still half-lidded and sleepy-looking. "We're partners now," he said at last, and Shoutarou's mind flicked back to last night, when Oya-san was swallowed up in the pit, the dizzying rush of becoming W, and the almost cautious brush of another mind against his. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the silver suitcase shoved under the table, nearly hidden by a sorry excuse for a tablecloth, almost forgotten.   
  
"I just want to be a detective," Shoutarou said, almost plaintively. The kid tilted his head, smiled again, and then walked over to where Shoutarou had reshelved all of his books.  
  
"I think Phillip is a nice name to have," Shoutarou's new housemate remarked, and ran a finger down the spine of Shoutarou's second edition of _The Long Goodbye_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life as it is living with an oddball for a housemate.

There were arrangements to be made, of course, once Phillip established that yes, due to various reasons not limited to being wanted by the powerful, angry and possibly evil nameless organization, Shoutarou was basically stuck with him. It wasn't something Shoutarou was particularly happy about.  
  
Mostly though, he hated that he had to come up with something to tell their clients about Oya-san, and he wasn't certain that he want news of Oya-san's death to spread (given that the corporation was probably looking out for recent deaths) and settled for a vague, "Narumi-san has been called away and won't be available to take cases for a while. We apologise for the inconvenience." As far as he knew, Oya-san didn't have any family, and Shoutarou...well, he tried not to think about his own.  
  
"Wind City is famed for its windmills," Phillip recited as he paced the floor, and Shoutarou absentmindedly nodded. It took him a while to figure out how to make use of Phillip's vast and yet seemingly useless store of knowledge; one needed to specify the exact keywords in order to get the desired information. It's a little like manipulating an internet search engine, Shoutarou mused.   
  
There wasn't much use asking Phillip himself who he was though. It seemed that there was a sort of failsafe, or Shoutarou was just failing at asking the right questions. The fact that Phillip remained frustratingly obtuse about his origins, or how he came by his Gaia Library, was something Shoutarou accepted, with sullen resignation, as unexplainable at the moment.  
  
"I don't know," was all the answer Phillip could give, and unlike other instances where he would have immediately gone on to research in order to fill up the dearth of information, Phillip's usual compulsion was strangely absent.  
  
\--------------------------------------  
  
Despite Shoutarou's determination not to end up something akin to a nagging mother (he was the wrong sex, for one), most of his interactions with Phillip involved a variation of several questions consisting of, "Have you eaten, Phillip," "Have you showered, Phillip," and "Are you _sure_ you've showered?!" He's pretty much given up on asking if Phillip had slept; there was no stopping Phillip when he got into one of his moods, and Shoutarou's gotten used to hearing the tell-tale thud whenever Phillip passed out from sheer exhaustion, then getting up to hoist Phillip onto the couch.  
  
"Maybe one day," he told the unconscious boy while grunting with effort, "You'll end up brain-damaged from all that fainting and falling and the evil corporation will give up hunting you down because you're not useful to them anymore."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a routine that Shoutarou never expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is mostly contributed by singingstorm.

On Monday, Shoutarou bought a ream of blank paper and a pack of cheap markers. On Tuesday, he bought two. On Wednesday, it went up to five and the cashier was beginning to look at him a little funny.  
  
"Arts and crafts," Shoutarou said, tipping his hat. "Paper mache is a killer."  
  
"Paper accounts for 35% of landfill waste," Phillip told him matter of factly after Shoutarou escaped from the stationery store and the shop assistant's suspicion that he's running some sort of _illicit paper drive_ in the office or something. Which didn't stop him from taking the bag and cheerfully tearing into its contents.  
  
"This is the sort of thanks I get," Shoutarou replied, but it's begun to be said with a sort of fond exasperation. The mountains of paper being generated with each subject search had started to become a familiar sight, though finding the space to store them all was becoming a problem. Shoutarou was fairly certain that he never saw Phillip going back to any of his completed research, but then again, he didn't want to throw any of it away in the event Phillip wanted something.  
  
Still, it really was getting a bit crowded despite the extra space afforded by the rather convenient empty warehouse situated in the same building. They managed to fit the tank Phillip had suggested they swipe when they were frantically escaping; Shoutarou was still adamant that they ditch the huge thing, there's absolutely no way they could use it without getting it traced back to them.   
  
"It'll be useful," Phillip had said, but all Shoutarou could see was that it made for a mildly interesting showpiece that would be buried very quickly under all of that paper.  
  
One day, two weeks later, Phillip got his attention with that strange sort of lilt in his voice that Shoutarou was beginning to associate with 'Things I Should Have Asked Phillip About Earlier'. "Shoutarou, do you know of this wonderful invention called the whiteboard?"  
  
"I...suppose so," Shoutarou said slowly and rather warily, wondering where this revelation was going to go.   
  
Phillip's eyes gleamed. "It's erasable!" he announced, like it was the greatest thing he had discovered since...well, the previous subject he was researching on. "You don't have to buy me paper anymore, you can buy me this thing called the whiteboard."  
  
"Don't you need to record your information?" Shoutarou asked suspiciously, brows furrowing. The amount of boxes full of paper was a silent and sore testimony, somehow already migrating into the office. Phillip cocked his head, a quizzical expression on his face.  
  
"It's already in the Library," he replied. "I don't why you like keeping my research, it's not like you read them."  
  
"I was keeping them for you!"  
  
"Oh." There was a pregnant pause while Shoutarou waited for Phillip to say something like, "Oh, I didn't think of that, thank you, Shoutarou." Except of course, this was Phillip he was talking about. "I don't really need them, you can throw them away."  
  
Shoutarou buried his face in his hands in response. It was better than screaming.  
  
\------------------------------------  
  
Phillip kind of reminded him of a cat, Shoutarou thought, what with his propensity for ignoring you in favour of his own whims, curling up in a corner when sufficiently relaxed, and, oh yeah, occasionally becoming a _completely vicious hellbeast_. Of course, with cats, that usually happened when Shoutarou was trying to get them out of a tree.   
  
"It's fine for you," Shoutarou muttered, trying not to wince as the impact from Phillip kicking the dopant rattled clear up his spine. " _I'm_ the one who's going to feel this in the morning."   
  
In response, Phillip kicked it in the face again.   
  
\------------------------------------  
  
"What's your problem with them, anyway? Dopants." Shoutarou usually tried not to ask Phillip irrelevant questions, since it only lead to more trouble than it was worth, but considering the fact that he was stuck slapping medicated plasters over his aching shoulder, _and_ he still got up on time to make breakfast, he figured he was entitled.   
  
Phillip looked up from his book, head tilted, like he was surprised that Shoutarou didn't already know.   
  
"They shouldn't exist," he said, matter of fact, his voice low and harsh. He was still smiling, that slightly confused half-smile, which made it even worse somehow.   
  
"Well," Shoutarou said, looking away, oddly uncomfortable. "Neither should sushi pizza, and yet."   
  
"Sushi?" Phillip said, wide-eyed, all earlier venom gone. "Pizza?"   
  
"Ah, crap."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no rush for the year to pass.

It ceased to become an unusual sight whenever Shoutarou returned home to find Phillip lying unconscious in front of his beloved whiteboards. In the beginning, it had filled him with worry and a lot of nagging when Phillip was awake to take better care of himself, but the other boy had simply, stubbornly refuted the concern for his well-being with, "Well, I haven't broken anything, and it doesn't hurt when I wake up." ("Of course it doesn't, I drag you to- AUGH.") Now, with nearly a year's worth of living together and feeling exhausted and cold from hunting a fruitless lead, Shoutarou was tempted to leave Phillip there, just for a moment. It would teach him a lesson.

After all, Shoutarou wasn't obligated to pick Phillip up when the latter couldn't even be arsed to look after himself. But there was a prodding voice in his head that it was nearing winter, and even if the garage had been properly heated, it probably wasn't that comfortable lying on hard metal rails.

Shoutarou sighed in defeat before dragging the unconscious boy over to the couch, tugging the blankets left at the end to cover Phillip.

He really shouldn't have sat down on the couch, and when he did, he promised himself that he only meant to rest his eyes for a little while, there was more work, but he ended up falling asleep anyway. When he woke up, caused by an uncomfortable crick in his neck, somehow his lap had become Phillip's pillow, and one of Phillip's arms were curled lightly around his waist.

"Brat," Shoutarou murmured. He slipped out of Phillip's loose grasp, and adjusted the blanket over the other boy. In this sort of moment, when Phillip was quiet and not being a complete freak, he looked shockingly young, and Shoutarou wasn't quite sure what to feel about it. Sick? It's not particularly "hard-boiled" to feel sympathy for anyone, because that's what gets you killed, in the end. He'd seen it happen, after all.

"Oya-san," he moaned, suddenly heartsick for his mentor. Phillip shifted in his sleep, hairclips clicking against each other. He muttered something unintelligible, and Shoutarou, acting on a strange foreign impulse, took Phillip's hand, and pressed it firmly to his lips in prayer.

"I wish I knew what to do," Shoutarou murmured, sick and miserable, and dreaded the days ahead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But look, this year is already over.

There were things that Shoutarou knew he should do, things like informing Santa-chan and Watcherman and Jin-san of Oya-san's...passing; as his friends they deserved to know that much. But he couldn't bring himself to even visit the destroyed building they had infiltrated to retrieve Phillip, much less ask Jin-san if they had discovered his boss' body in the wreckage. The fact that the police never came to his door, even after the months passed and the collapse was classed as an architectural disaster, told Shoutarou all he needed to know.

It didn't make the grieving any easier. Instead, for a while after the closing report came out Shoutarou jumped at ghosts, semi-convinced that somehow Oya-san managed to escape and was always just at the edge of his vision; drinking coffee at his favourite coffee-shop, reading the newspaper at his desk, or even thinking he heard his laughter. He even had dreams of his boss alive and well and just missing that important component of memory that made Oya-san Oya-san. 

"Just go," Phillip said one day, standing at the desk and disturbing Shoutarou's very serious contemplation of whether he should consider putting effort into finding Oya-san, "Your moping is making it hard for me to concentrate on my research."

Before Shoutarou could retort that there's always a chance, there's no body after all, Phillip added, "Even if the earth opened in Fuuto, it won't bring Narumi Soukichi back. You should move on."

\-----------------------

"He always makes it sound so easy," Shoutarou muttered when he left the agency in a burst of wordless frustration. "What does he know, does he even care anyway, damn it-"

Still, he ended up wandering, whether by unconscious choice or not, to the location anyway. Like everywhere else in surburban Japan, the local prefectural authorities had already begun the construction of a new building. The city was low not only on land but also sentimentality, there was no need for anyone to remember buildings of little significance.

Shoutarou stood there anyway, half expecting a sudden rush of memory or emotion, but there was only the sound of metal on metal, and men calling to each other, and the sound of the wind. It was that sound, above everything, that brought a hitch to Shoutarou's breathing.

"Oya-san!" he shouted, bringing his hands up to cup his mouth. "Oya-saaaaaaaaan."

One of the men looked up from his work and shouted, "Oi, you looking for someone?" Shoutarou jerked in surprise, and then laughed uneasily. "No...well, ah. Maybe....he's late."

"Just call him on your phone, yeah? You're distracting us with your screaming."

"S-sorry-!"

He ducked his head and retreated to a small corpse of trees which overlooked the main city. Dimly, he wondered if he should put down a memorial of some sort, and whether it would last. Shoutarou found himself blanching at the idea almost at once though, like he's finally ready to admit that- that... He grunted in frustation. This was such a bad idea, really.

"I brought flowers."

"What the f-"

Phillip did actually brandish a bouquet of flowers at him, although Shoutarou had absolutely no idea where he got the money to do so. Or how he found Shoutarou in the first place, but then Batshot popped out from behind Phillip, merrily waving its wings. 

"It's not final until we see the dead body, you know," Shoutarou started, but then Phillip interrupted him with a whimsical smile and said, " _I know_."

He wanted to hit Phillip for those two words, but then he hunched down instead in sudden weariness, scrubbing at his face. 

"Say goodbye," Phillip said. He dropped down to his haunches as well, and shoved the bouquet into Shoutarou's hands. "It'll make you feel better," he added. "The library said so."

"No, it won't," Shoutarou muttered, but he ran his fingers over the blossoms anyway before putting it down against the roots of a tree. _I miss him_ , Shoutarou wanted to say, _I hate him for leaving me like this._

"Oya-san." He whispered instead. Phillip hummed and twisted his fingers together, rocking slightly on his heels. 

It had already been a year.


End file.
